


It's Just One of Those Days

by airspaniel



Category: Premium Rush (2012)
Genre: Bicycles, Bisexual Character, Gen, New York City, Original Character(s), Police, Pre-Slash (if you squint)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 11:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of Bike Cop's terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Just One of Those Days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinn/gifts).



> From the second I saw this movie I knew I was destined to write this. Bike Cop is my favorite character. Given the lack of actual information, I've made up a lot of names. All portrayals of police activity are based on things I've picked up from a couple of NYPD guys I know, and shouldn't be taken as gospel truth. My geography is pretty sound, though.
> 
> I hope you like it, [brinn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brinn)! Happy Yuletide!

Kevin Nowitzski woke up late after a night of terrible dreams. He slept like the dead, but oh man, the shit his brain threw up to freak him out while he was unconscious. He stretched his arms out, reassured that they were both still attached ( _Jesus._ ) and instead of wrapping around his lovely girlfriend, Katie, his hand met the empty bed. Well, not totally empty. A sheet of paper crinkled in his fingers as he lifted it to his face, blinking to clear the sleep from his eyes.

_Kevin,_

_It’s not working out. I’m sorry._

_~ K_

Well. That sucked. He reached over for his cell, said “call Katie,” and waited while it rang. And rang. And cut off weirdly in the middle of a ring, like she’d deliberately declined the call.

He tried one more time, and it went straight to voicemail. Dropping the phone to the covers next to the note (a fucking note, for real? After a year?), he rolled out of bed and headed for the shower.

Fuck this miserable day already.

\----- 

“Nowitzski! You’re on bike patrol today. Broadway,” the Chief said, the first piece of good news Kevin had gotten all day. “You take Cathedral Parkway down to Ninety-sixth. Connors’ll cover south of that to the Two-Oh.”

“Yes, sir,” Kevin said, already heading for the bikes. He rode more often than not, but lately they’d kept him parkside, trawling up and down CPW looking out for the dogwalkers and joggers and lost tourists. He walked the bike more often than not on those patrols, just because he couldn’t go fast enough to make getting on the damn thing worth it. But Broadway… Broadway’s where the action is, and taking such a long section of it meant he was almost certain to get some good riding in today.

He really fucking needed it, had felt keyed up since those dreams this morning and Katie skipping out and not returning his calls like a total _bitch_ meant he had a lot of energy to burn off.

Walking the bike out of the station lot, Kevin kicked back into a fancy little mount, and pulled the front up into a wheelie as soon as his ass touched the seat. He could hear Connors laughing behind him.

“Careful, Slick! Don’t wanna get hurt or anything.”

“Eat my ass, Kurt,” Kevin called over his shoulder.

“You wish!” Connors yelled back, but they were both laughing now, and Kevin felt a little lighter as his bike picked up speed.

Maybe things were looking up.

\----- 

“…bike messenger, red shirt, black shorts, about six feet, brown hair in a buzz cut, going south on Broadway _fast._ Bike is fixed gear, white with black handles. Numerous traffic violations, plus reckless endangerment. All units be on the lookout.”

Jesus _Christ_. The fuck was that kid carrying?

His radio crackled to life. “Thank you, unit. Request you to proceed to Central Park West and continue patrol. Eighty-sixth to Ninety-sixth.”

“Fuck!” Kevin yelled. “Fucking, no, _no!_ Not the fucking _park,_ Dispatch, you unbelievable ASSHOLES!” He threw the radio against the side of his bike frame, where it failed to hit any of the supports and swung back to hit him in the thigh, nailing him right where he took the brunt of that fall. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Copy that, Dispatch,” he said, calmly, into the radio. “Heading parkside, ETA ten minutes.”

\----- 

After a seemingly endless stretch of time where he limped next to his bike and _nothing fucking happened_ , he got a call that two bikes were tearing ass through the park, coming down West Drive like mad men, skipping onto pedestrian paths, and Kevin was on that so fast that Dispatch didn’t even have time to acknowledge. His side burned as he pedaled but he didn’t give the slightest shit. It actually felt good to push it. He turned into the park at 85th, to avoid the crosstown traffic, and went as fast as he could. He didn’t catch up until the two bikes burst into sight, almost all the way to Columbus Circle.

Awesome. That bastard in red was racing somebody. African-American, probably about six foot three, _exceptional_ muscle tone, holy shit, the guy was built like a _tank._ And he was _flying_ on that bike. What the fuck was going on?

He should’ve called this in, should’ve let someone know he was leaving the precinct, but no, fuck it, this was personal, now. He was gonna take this fucking bike messenger _down._

Streets passed by in a blur, 55th, 47th, the lights of Times Square flashing a few blocks away as he followed the race downtown. 40th Street. 34th… 32nd…

The messengers took a sharp turn on to 28th street, which was blocked by a massive fucking truck carrying what looked like one goddamn palm tree, of all the stupid shit in the world. Kevin slowed his roll, but those crazy fuckers just went _under the truck_ , holy _shit_. Fortunately the truck was soon in motion, shifting just enough for Kevin to slip behind it, and he hadn’t lost as much ground as he thought. In fact, he could just about…

“Stop! NYPD!” he screamed, launching himself off the bike, and his whole miserable life flashed in front of his eyes for a moment before he made contact with another body. They went flying in a tangle of limbs, crashing to the side of the road, and while Kevin’s first thought was “holy fuck, I’m not dead!” his second thought was, “that’s right, I’ve got you now, you bastard!”

“Man, lemme up, let me the fuck up!” the guy underneath him yelled, and it was only then that Kevin realized that the shirt in his hands was the wrong color. White, not red.

 _Shit_.

“You fuckin’ tackled me!” the African-American biker said, irate, and this time when he shoved at Kevin’s chest, Kevin let him go; stood up and tried to trace back what had just happened.

“I didn’t mean to tackle _you_ ,” he spit back, less professional than he probably should be, but fuck it.

The man did not seem moved by that admission. “But you did! What the hell, man?!”

The professional thing would be to take this guy to the nearest precinct, write him up for reckless behavior or whatever, and let the system take care of him. But Kevin was out-of-breath, down one perp, down a _girlfriend_ and a decent beat and he was pretty sure he was _bleeding_ , so…

“Look,” he said, leveling with the guy. “I’m not having that nice a day either. Now I could take you in, and we’d both be tied up for the next few hours in a nightmare of questions and paperwork, or you can pick up your bike and get the fuck out of here, and we both pretend this never happened, you understand? We cool?”

There must have been something crazy in his eyes, because the dude actually looked surprised.

“Yeah, all right. We cool,” he said, dusting his shit off and riding away.

Kevin picked up his radio. “Dispatch,” he said. “I am taking my break now.”

“Copy that,” Dispatch replied.

There had to be a fucking Starbucks around here or something.

\----- 

The joy of a triple caramel hazelnut latte was not long-lived. Katie still wasn’t answering her phone. It’s just as well, she was kind of a bitch anyway. It was always doomed between the two of them. Kevin didn’t know why he’d held on as long as he had, honestly.

Ugh, he should think about something else, for fuck’s sake. No sense adding to this shitstain of a day.

His cell buzzed on the table and he picked it up. Still not Katie.

“What do you want, Connors?” he answered.

“You must be in a pissy mood if we’re doing last names, Nowitzski,” Connors teased down the line.

Kevin sighed. “What do you want, _Kurt?_ ”

“Love the way you say my name, baby,” Connors laughed. “Anyway, here’s something that might cheer you up. That messenger you were after? Hit by a taxi. Or he hit a taxi, I’m not too sure.”

“No fucking way,” Kevin said, feeling his lips curl up in pure schadenfreude.

“Yes fucking way. They took him to Beth Israel to get patched up, but here’s the weird thing.” Connors lowered his voice, like he didn’t want to be overheard on his end. “Somehow this kid made pals with Monday to get his bike back.”

That was… kind of weird. “Why does he want his bike? Taxi hit it, that thing’s probably totaled, right?”

“I dunno, but they’re taking him to impound right now. I mean, if you were still interested in getting your hands on this kid for like, whatever reasons. Whatever totally within proper police procedure reasons, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” said Kevin, smiling in earnest now. “Thanks, Kurt.”

“De nada, amigo. It’s worth it just to put a smile on your face. Later!”

Kevin hopped back on his bike and headed for the pier.

\----- 

When he got to the impound lot at Pier 76, it seemed like there was a situation going on. There were no officers stationed outside, and the main doors were closed, which was really fucking strange when it’s not even seven o’clock yet. He pulled up to the side and put his bike in the rack, taking a look around to see if anyone was home. A small crash and a rattle caught his attention, and he turned back around just in time to see _that fucker in red STEALING HIS GODDAMN BIKE._

 _That’s it. I’m done._ he thought. Maybe even said it out loud. Cops were streaming out of the impound warehouse now, chasing the kid. Fuck it. Let them run for a while. He was done.

He pulled out his phone and shot a text to Kurt.

_Tell the boss I’m taking the rest of the day. FUCK this day._

The reply was almost instantaneous.

_Aww… ok. Told chief you had the shits. Feel better, sunshine!_

Kurt was such a dick.

Since he already had the phone out, it didn’t take much to send a text to Katie, too.

_Thanks for the note. Fuck you twice. Enjoy the rest of your life._

There was no response. He didn’t expect one.

Kevin shoved the phone into his pocket and took off walking. Didn’t know where he was going, but he didn’t give a shit. The sun was going down.

\----- 

He ended up in a divey little bar on the Bowery, Joe’s or something like that, whatever, there was beer and it was pretty quiet and that was all Kevin wanted. So of course that’s when a small army of people came through the door, laughing and yelling at each other in apparent triumph. Kevin wasn’t listening. He didn’t care. He was going to finish his beer and go somewhere else as soon as possible.

The crowd pushed right up against his seat at the bar, and when Kevin shifted to try and make more room, he accidentally bumped his elbow into the guy next to him. It was just a little tap to the ribs, but the guy jerked like he’d been shot, knocking Kevin’s beer over so it spilled into his lap.

“Oh, shit, dude, I am really sorry about that!” the guy said, reaching for some bar napkins to help out.

“It’s just that kind of day, man,” he said, staring mournfully at his soaked clothes. “I should probably just go home and go to bed, get this shit over with.”

The guy laughed, a grittier sound than Kevin was expecting, but it was a nice sound all the same. “I know how that goes.”

Kevin quirked the side of his mouth up, wondering if four beers was enough to justify a rebound fuck with a random guy when he hadn’t even been single for twelve hours, and then he saw the guy’s face.

And he just had to laugh, you know? Holy _shit_. He laughed so hard he thought he was going to throw up. The guy, the _kid_ , the fucking _red-shirted asshole_ was standing right next to him, bruised and beaten all to fuck, looking like he was _really_ fucking confused and starting to worry about the crazy man covered in beer.

“You,” Kevin wheezed, this was _hilarious_. “I just spent my whole fucking shift chasing your ass the whole length of this goddamn island.”

Red Shirt’s eyes went wide in recognition. “Oh, shit. Oh, _shit_ …”

Kevin just kept on laughing. “You stole my fucking bike, dude!”

“No way, man, I think I’d remember that,” Red Shirt snapped, defensive.

“Outside the impound lot. You made some kind of crazy escape like always, and then you grabbed a bike from the rack of police issues. It was mine.” He wiped away the the tears that had gathered at the sides of his eyes. His sides hurt from laughing.

“Oh…” Red Shirt said, clearly thinking up an exit strategy. “Are you gonna…?”

Kevin chuckled a little. He still couldn’t get over it. This fucking day. “Nah, man. Fuck it. Not like I paid for it.” He shook his head and considered his wet clothes, considered sitting next to the guy who had been the bane of his fucking existence for the longest hour and a half ever, considered going home to an empty apartment. Considered having another beer.

The second he thought it, one was set down in front of him, long fingers with scraped-up knuckles wrapped around the cold glass.

“Yuengling, right?” Red Shirt said, not really a question. “I figure I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than one, I’ll tell you that much.” Kevin took the glass and lifted it companionably. “Thank you.”

Red Shirt laughed again, and it was still a nice sound. “Hey, what did you mean I made a crazy escape like always?”

Kevin shrugged. “You got away from me uptown in a serious fashion, and I’m pretty sure I’ll have bruises for days.. Then I chased you and your buddy all the way through the park down to Twenty-eighth and you got away again. The shit at the impound lot… I mean, it just seems like the kind of thing you do. You ride like a fucking demon, man, Jesus Christ.”

Red Shirt grinned around the neck of his beer bottle, and Kevin got the feeling that he had just stepped into a very old conversation. Then Red Shirt was holding his hand out.

“The name’s Wilee.”

Wily? Wile-e? Like the fucking coyote? Kevin took the offered handshake. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

Wilee raised an eyebrow, but he was smiling. He turned and looked towards a pretty girl across the bar (his girlfriend? Jesus, Nowitzski, you’ll never make detective with observational skills like that.), just a little check-in, and she rolled her eyes at him. Fondly, though; she smiled and nodded. Kevin was weirdly… jealous? Maybe that last beer was a mistake after all.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled. “It’s been a long fucking day.”

“No worries, Officer…” Wilee said in a leading tone.

Jesus, way to win at functional social interaction. “Nowitzski. Fuck, sorry. Kevin Nowitzski.”

“Nice to meet you, Officer Nowitzski.” Wilee leaned over and bumped his shoulder against Kevin’s. They both winced a little bit, but they were both still laughing.

“Please, call me Kevin.”


End file.
